


Body And Soul

by MrEvilside



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Dark Tony Stark, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Jealousy, M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 17:18:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrEvilside/pseuds/MrEvilside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony and Loki don't have a relationship; they just have sex from time to time. Tony thought it was okay, except now he isn't so sure anymore and Loki offers him a bargain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body And Soul

**Author's Note:**

> FYI: Tony's eyes are said to be blue because he _has_ blue eyes in the comics, not because of some Tesseract-related spell, just so you know.  
>  My beta for this piece (read: the one who made it understandable in current English) was [qwanderer](http://qwanderer.tumblr.com/). Thanks a lot!

The mortal is especially tense tonight.

As he crawls down the man’s back, marking his path between his shoulder blades with wet kisses and occasional, spiteful bites, Loki feels his muscles ripple and strain, yet never relax, under his featherlike touch.

The god pauses somewhere above his kidneys and speaks in a low, seductive tone, a soft puff over his lover’s skin. “Something bothers you.”

One of his arms snakes around the Midgardian’s midriff, his hand wanders idly over his chest, pinches one of his nipples, circumnavigates the Arc reactor and settles in his lap, right below his navel, right above his groin.

Stark arches his back and muffles husky noises against the pillow he is nearly crushing in his hands.

Oh, the god does love to torture him and watch as he writhes and strives for attention.

“I’m…” The mortal is cut off by a groan when his lover cups his testicles with the same casualness he would take a cup of tea with. “I’m perfectly fi- _aah_ -ine, sweetheart. What would ma- _ah_ -ke you think I’m not?”

Loki heaves a patient sigh and punishes him with a rather hard bite a few inches above one of his cheeks. He has long since learnt that, if the Midgardian calls him pet names, something must be wrong with him; he loathes when Stark tries to hide the truth from him, even though by now he should know better than that.

“Do not test my patience,” the god hums, as his fingers ghost over the mortal’s scrotum in an absent-minded caress that threatens to drive his lover mad. “Tell me.”

Upon the lack of a prompt response, Loki squeezes his balls hard and snorts as a warning, the man holds in a sharp breath, struggles to resist, but yields eventually. Given their position, with the Midgardian lying on his stomach and the god on top of him, Loki cannot see his eyes, yet he doesn’t need to in order to notice the depth of his bitterness, though concealed under layers of snippy sarcasm.

“Did you have fun last night?”

At first bemused, the god blinks, and suddenly it clicks. “Oh,” he drawls, replaces the harsh grip with a gentle, fleeting caress that has his lover moan deeply in frustration.

He can sense the reluctance in Stark’s voice, tastes the truth in his words, wallows in his discomfort.

_Exquisite._

“I thought you didn’t want a committed relationship, Stark.”

He surprises himself with his ability to keep a straight face and a neutral tone when all he wants to do is tilt his head back and laugh, laugh until his throat is raw and his lungs cry for air, because Anthony Stark, the indestructible Man of Iron, has a weakness.

It bears Loki’s name and they are both well aware of it.

The mortal scoffs in annoyance at that and mutters under his breath: “Well, didn’t know you’d take that as a fuck-all-the-people-you-want kind of permission.”

The god fights a grin off his own face, lest the man suddenly turns towards him, and settles for a seemingly irritated voice instead. He hisses, “Was it not the sort of permission you wanted for yourself? Perhaps it burns you to be the one left alone waiting for my return?” whereas he wants to coo cruelly, _“Poor, dearest Stark, so wanton, yet so unwanted”_.

“Well…” The Midgardian pauses in his tracks, visibly angry but unable to contradict his lover’s statement, which riles him up all the more. “Well, you could make it subtler, you know. _I_ wouldn’t come back looking like a fucking polka-dot blanket with all those fucking hickeys. Just saying.” He waits, hopes that Loki will say something, all the while certain that it isn’t going to happen, that Loki isn’t like that and that is why he likes him so much; he grows bored with the heavy silence, tries to sneak away from the god’s grasp and buries his head in the cushion to avoid him like a capricious child. “Never mind. I’m just not in the mood tonight. Talk to Pep, arrange an appointment. Consulting is scheduled on Thursdays from eight to five.”

Loki’s hands on him are still mockingly gentle, though his grip turns almost fierce when Stark attempts to get away from him.

He presses his cheek against the mortal’s back, wraps his fingers around his erection, moves them up and down in excruciatingly slow motions, as if he is petting a hurt dog instead of giving his lover a handjob. “If you wish for me to stop seeing other people,” he croons, almost singing in that throaty, alluring voice of his, “why would you not simply ask for it?”

The man stiffens, forces himself not to shiver in reaction to the god’s deft touch, not to be affected by his words.

He fails at both things so miserably he wants to punch himself in the face.

The first time Loki kissed him, Tony didn’t want a relationship and the god didn’t deem a lowly being such as a Midgardian, as outstanding as he might be, worthy to share with him anything more substantial than a bed.

They fitted each other’s needs perfectly: Loki provided him with hot sex and cleverness, demanding only his body in return, while on his part, Tony didn’t care if the god didn’t come back to him for a few days or if he wreaked havoc on the world every now and again. Everything felt simple and easy to the man, who wasn’t ready for complicated and difficult yet – as in handling a proper relationship.

Except now he still isn’t ready and yet Loki’s escapades have started getting on his nerves.

At first it was a feeble, barely there pang of irritation he could easily pretend was stress from the superhero stuff he did most days; since then, it has grown bigger and bigger, nestled inside his chest, right behind the Arc reactor. Now it burns every time he wonders where the god is – _who he is with_ – and the absence of any obligation whatsoever doesn’t look as good as it did two months ago.

He isn’t in love with Loki.

It doesn’t _feel_ like he is; he still remembers vaguely how it was when he fell for Pepper: he was happy most of the time, didn’t need to have anyone else besides her, didn’t _want_ anyone or anything else.

It isn’t much different now, he has to admit, only, instead of happy, he is tormented most of the time.

He isn’t in love with Loki; he is addicted to him.

What irks him the most, though, is that the god _knows_.

“And you’d do it because I asked politely?” The Midgardian sneers, a pathetic, self-loathing sound, interspersed with lust-addled grunts. “Bullshit. Wasn’t your best lie, pal. Even Cap wouldn’t buy it.”

“Oh, but I would,” the god murmurs, his thumb teasing the slit of the mortal’s phallus, his eyelids tickling his lover’s skin in a way that always makes him shiver. How such a simple gesture can be so enthralling is beyond Tony – and this is how he realizes he is definitely fucked up, because nothing is beyond his genius. “For the right price.”

Of course there is a price, Tony muses to himself scornfully. There is always a price: Loki is constantly after his own benefit, after all. People believe him heartless, yet they can’t imagine how wrong they are.

The god loves, the man doesn’t doubt it one bit; he loves and loves dearly, faithfully, sincerely.

Who he is so enamored with, though, is and will always be himself.

Loki takes Stark’s silence as a prompt to explain himself, sets a slightly faster pace around his lover’s erection, making him gasp and buck his hips helplessly into his hand, and ingrains a derisive smirk in his side in the shape of the umpteenth light kiss.

“I want the world,” he whispers, inspecting the mortal’s flesh closely as it gets peppered with goose bumps and the hairs stand on edge. His green eyes gleam in the darkness, his tongue flickers out to wet dry lips as he pauses, lets the words sink in. He can’t rush now. No mistake is allowed, if he wants to succeed. “I wouldn’t request anything you couldn’t give me. Gift me the world and I will be yours.”

If only the god had been wrong, Tony ponders, he could have laughed at his folly and turned his offer down without a second thought.

The thing is, Loki is right.

Actually, common people can’t get a world for their lover as a birthday present, no matter how rich or smart they are. Unlike common people, Tony Stark, Iron Man, admired superhero and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most influential consultant, can.

Not in the physical way, of course – he suspects even Thor would have some issues with handing a whole planet over to Jane – but he has the money, the tech and the social position to grant Loki access to any source he may need in the pursuing of his goal.

He shoulders the god, pushes him away and Loki lets him, sitting up in a smooth twist of his slender frame.

Tony lies on his side so that his back is turned on him and thus can’t see the annoyed grimace crossing the god’s features for a split-second. He can’t see how his face muscles relax and twitch again into amusement either.

 _Foolish mortal._ Loki leans in again, close enough to make him feel his breath against the nape of his neck, far enough as to not scare him away like a frightened animal. _You have no idea how lucky you are. I should kill you for your insolence._ “If you help me,” he promises in a sugary voice, “I will keep you with me…” _As my pet._ “As my consort king.”

From where he is, Stark eludes his gaze, though the god can still catch a glimpse of his eyelashes fluttering when he blinks in surprise. Loki bathes in the stunned silence that follows, lets his fingertips travel from the base of the mortal’s neck along his exposed shoulder and side, lures him some more: “Imagine what we could do together. No one would ever be able to stand against us. You would have me and the power you secretly crave for. Would it not be worth a world that cannot recognize your full potential?”

If Tony were Rogers, tempting as the proposal might be, he would refuse without sparing it much thought. If he were Romanoff, he would pretend he wanted to accept and then kick the god in the ass when he wasn’t looking. If he were only a little more a hero and a little less Tony Stark, Loki’s words wouldn’t ring as true.

If that were the case, however, the god wouldn’t be in his bed now in the first place, dripping sweet poison in his ear, offering him dreams the man fails to pretend aren’t terrifyingly similar to his own.

Since the Midgardian hasn’t shrugged his fingers off his body, Loki takes it as the silent permission to scoot closer again, grabs him by his arms gently and rolls him on his back in a swift motion.

While Stark is still trying to process what has just happened, he glides forward on his hands and knees, like a panther stalking its prey, and kneels between his legs, their faces a few inches apart, blue eyes losing themselves in sly green orbs.

“You do not have to answer straightaway,” Loki purrs, his lips brushing the mortal’s as he speaks, but not quite kissing him. “Take your time to make your decision. I will respect it.”

Tony puts all the effort he can manage into avoiding falling for that sinful mouth, for that magnetic gaze. He thinks about people dying in the streets, casualties from one of the god’s cruel pranks; about Steve, stupidly patriotic suit soaked with blood, hair sticking to his pale face, miraculously alive after Loki mistook him for a punching bag; about the god’s horribly smug chuckle while he is contemplating the destruction he just caused.

Then, of its own accord, his mind betrays him and conjures up different images – Loki, naked and sated, sprawled next to him; Loki, holding his face in a possessive, almost painful grip as he kisses him fiercely; Loki, liquid green eyes and impossibly red lips, smirking at him, seducing him when he is supposed to be working.

Loki, Loki, _Loki_.

He is so obsessed he wants to panic, but the god’s touch is proving too much of a distraction, especially when, fed up with his stubborn silence, Loki moves further forward and captures his mouth in a searing, white-hot kiss and presses their bodies flush against each other, their erections rubbing together and their hips grinding like well-oiled components of a machine.

They both moan into the kiss, the god in that quiet, ever collected way of his, the mortal in a much louder and messier display of appreciation.

Loki winds his arms around the Midgardian’s waist and digs his fingers into his back forcefully, holding his strength back only enough as to not kill him; Stark growls, stuffs the god’s question and his own lack of refusal in the back of his mind and allows himself to get lost in his lover’s bruising embrace.

Loki contemplates insisting some more but, when the mortal clings to him, begging for attention, he chooses to be a merciful deity.

 _Soon_ , he tells himself, sinking his teeth in the crook of the man’s neck. _Soon enough you’ll be mine._

If the God of Chaos wants something, he takes it – every single part of it, from the biggest down to the smallest, the least significant even. He wants Tony Stark, and he wants him body and soul.

 

*

 

Up in the air, Tony gazes down at the ground far below him, wonders briefly what it would feel like to crash against it, to have his suit crumple around him and bury him in a coffin of metal and earth. He also wonders what it would feel like to own every single inch of land as far as the horizon and even further ahead of him.

 _“Iron Man,”_ Rogers’s voice calls for him through the comms, slight worry merging with soldier-like sternness, _“are you okay?”_

 _“Yeah, man,”_ Barton chimes in, because he just can’t mind his own business, _“you look like you’re taking a nap over there.”_

Deigning to give the archer no more than a disdainful scoff, Tony keeps on wondering.

He wonders what it would be like if they weren’t on the same side anymore, if he were to fight them alongside Loki instead of the other way around. He wonders how long it would take his armor to kill them.

After all, he has never been Avengers material.

When he glides closer to the top of the tallest buildings in the city and eventually spots Loki, looking up at him with a knowing smirk plastered on the lips Tony was kissing only a few hours ago, the man can’t help but grin back behind his faceplate.

 _Oh yes_ , the god muses, eyes glinting with triumph, _body and soul._


End file.
